The Wistful Voyage
The ink in the well of the cellar was blacker than the silence that had settled over the estate since the snow began to fall, a heavy, suffocating blanket that muffled the creaking of the old beams overhead and seemed to press against the glass of the small, dirty window that let in only a sliver of gray winter light. Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and a man whose spine had been bent by...
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